"Ishmael, if you ever come back here, I swear I will kill you," said my sister, Hawa Dubuisson. She uttered those words after siding with her lover, Mikhail Mulenge, against our Family and against me. This was a hostile takeover and we both knew it. Classic behavior among our blood, to be sure...
With my father, Faisal Dubuisson dead and buried, our clan was ripe for a takeover. Males and females compete for power, influence and prestige among those of our blood. As the only male heir, I knew that I had to watch my back. Someone was bound to make a power play and they'd want me out of the way. I just didn't think it would come from one of our own.
I looked at Hawa, my darling little sister, and wished fervently that I could rip out her heart and feast on it before the light went out of her eyes. I would savor that tasty morsel rather than devouring it quickly. I've heard that the blood of traitors tastes sweet. I'd love to test that theory. Perhaps someday I will. Ah, there's nothing quite like Family.
"Whatever, Hawa, I don't forgive, and I don't forget," I replied, and with that, I walked out of the Dubuisson Family house in Orleans, Ontario, and made my way to the Jeanne D'Arc Bus Stop, located roughly two kilometers away. It's not a good feeling, to suddenly find oneself an outcast supposedly among one's own kind...
I kind of knew this bit of hostility was coming, but the timing still took me by surprise. Hawa must have been plotting that move for a while. That's my not so sweet little sister in action. She puts the T in traitor. We don't have a sexist line of succession like most human societies do. Any of the heirs of the Family, male or female, can make a play for leadership...
Mikhail, the bozo whom my sister Hawa is so fond of, is one of those people whom you dislike instantly. He's short, but stocky and muscular, with a big mouth and the obligatory chip on the shoulder that short guys come equipped with. He's got anger issues and a short temper, and I never liked him. Can't tell you what my sister sees in this douche bag. Still, never thought she'd betray our clan for him, though...
Among our kind, treachery and deceipt know no bounds, and it's often those closest to you that mean you the most harm. Now that I think about it, perhaps I should have paid attention to the dealings happening in the Dubuisson household after my father's death. I was too wracked with grief to care, and now my survival is at stake. Great, huh?
My sister Hawa and I have never been what anyone would consider close. When I was eighteen years old, during the summer after my graduation from Saint Mat's, we got into an argument over usage of the Family computer and Hawa tried to kill me with a knife. I snatched it out of her hand just in time. If I'd been a second slower, Hawa would have plunged the silver blade in my back and ended my frigging life.
When I told our Family what Hawa had done, they didn't believe me. Come to think of it, the little sociopath is quite convincing and the rest of the Family is spineless, so, yeah, I don't care much for them. I might be of their blood, but I am not one of them. My personality and my ways make me different, and I'm not just saying that because I'm bisexual. It goes deeper than that.
A lot of people think that opposites attract, and that's not exactly true. Birds of a feather definitely flock together in my experience. Take me for example. I've always been an odd duck, even among my own clan. My Family has been living in the province of Ontario for close to a hundred years, having moved there from the island of Haiti early in the twentieth century.
My grandfather Bashir Dubuisson was the first person in our Family to set foot in Ontario, Canada. He was born in the environs of Cap-Haitien, northern Haiti, and left the island in the 1930s. For a time, Grandpa wondered all over Canada, doing odd jobs in Ontario, and also in Quebec and Nova Scotia. At some point, Grandpa converted to Islam, changing his first name to Bashir.
Bashir Dubuisson married a woman named Jeannine LaRue, who was half white and half Aboriginal, from the Ojibwe nation of Ontario. My father Faisal Dubuisson was born to them, and he married a Haitian immigrant woman named Geraldine Poisson, my mother. Ontario is our home, we of the Dubuisson clan. We're proudly Muslim, and as Canadian as maple syrup, but it doesn't change what we are.
What are we? What else could we be? I'll get to it soon, no worries. It was five o'clock, and since it's wintertime in Ontario, Canada, this means that it's getting dark soon. I boarded the OC Transpo bus and made my way to the west end of Ottawa, well outside the boundaries of Dubuisson clan territory. Theoretically, I ought to be safe, outside of the Family's sphere of influence, but I was still looking over my shoulder.
Before we go any further, I think I ought to let you know who and what you're dealing with. My name is Ishmael Dubuisson, and I am a Loup Garou. It's the French term for Werewolves, Lycanthropes and other assorted furballs that are people at least some of the time and sentient animals when they think nobody's around. We're here, and we're for real. Get over it.
In order to become a Loup Garou, your father and mother must be of our blood, and get together in order to create you. It's not like the movies where some bozo gets bit by a hairy thing one random night while out in the woods and then, bam, he's got super powers! You can't become one of us that way. Don't even ask. Thank you very much for understanding.
Upon meeting me, most people tend to stare, though most of the time they don't even know why. Like all my kind, I have a magnetic presence. I stand six-foot-three, burly and a bit chubby, with skin the color of charcoal, and light brown eyes that I'm told are weirdly luminescent, both during the day and night. I keep my head shaved, but have a full beard and mustache. I am many things, don't ask me to choose between them.
Let's get the identity politics out of the way. I am Black, I am Male, and I am Bisexual. A genetic quirk also made me different from the rest of Humanity. I am descended from anthropomorphic, wolf-like creatures with shape-shifting abilities. A wholly different order of being. We've always been around, the truth behind so many myths and legends. Some call us Werewolves, Lycanthropes or Skin Walkers. I prefer the term Loup Garou.
The thing that the movies, horror novels and television series don't get about us Loup Garou is that we're predators, first and foremost. Hollywood keeps portraying us as people who become animal-like creatures under the light of the moon. The truth is that we were never human, and that our humanity is a disguise, pure and simple. I'm not like you, and I never will be...
I rode the OC Transpo bus, and looked at my fellow passengers, these nice, normal humans going about their happy lives. As a Loup Garou, I can tell a lot of things about a person just by looking at them. Compared to my kind, humanity is quite dreadfully simple. I thank mother nature for making me different, for my ultra-sharp senses provide me with much insight...
Let's see, the tall, red-haired gal with the Sens hat and Yoga pants is on her period. The Hijab-wearing, pious-looking Arab gal checking her cell phone recently had sex with another woman, whose scent lingers on her in spite of showering. The portly, middle-aged Black man reading the James Patterson paperback should really watch it with those candy bars he keeps shoving into his mouth, because I can smell the sugar in his blood from afar...
The people on the bus are so mundane it hurts. There's only one person who tickles my fancy, so to speak. A tall, masculine guy with dark hair, dark brown skin and a thick Afro. He reminds me of Youssef, a six-foot-tall, dark-skinned, muscular and handsome young man from Central African Republic whom I met at Algonquin College a while ago...
Youssef and I had a lot in common, and although he was a mere mortal, we connected in such a way that I felt he was a kindred spirit. Like me, Youssef liked the ladies, and enjoyed having sex with women, but a manly meal every now and then is something he could not resist. We used to hook up regularly, something which I intensely enjoyed.
Youssef was blessed with a body that athletes would envy, and a huge, thick and slightly curved member. The handsome foreigner's body was like my favorite amusement park, and I loved going for a ride. Youssef always had a female whom he was sleeping with, and I didn't mind at all. We did our thing until Youssef graduated and returned to Africa, presumably to marry a lovely lady and start a family. I wish him the very best.
Where am I going with this nostalgic indulgence? Mr. Afro looks almost exactly like my dearly missed Youssef. He's got his arm around a short, slender and very attractive young Asian woman decked out in a crimson overcoat, black tank top and miniskirt. She's got lovely legs which are slender, and a bit more open than socially acceptable. I catch a glimpse of her Polka-dot panties, and smile.
Being naturally blessed with the ability to appreciate both female sensuality and male strength, my eyes lock onto this attractive couple. To my surprise, the brother with the Afro is speaking to his date in Mandarin. I'm impressed. Mr. Afro loves the Asian gal enough to learn her language and customs. I nod respectfully at them when they look up and see me, then I look away. If two people are happy together, leave them alone...
At the Saint Laurent Mall, a slew of passengers got off, and many more got on. I notice another mixed couple, and this one isn't half as attractive as the previous pair. An attractive young Black woman with dreads came on the bus, holding hands with a chubby white male. Upon noticing me, Miss Dreads kept smiling and touching her portly male companion affectionately, as though she were putting on a show for me.
"As if," I mumbled to myself as I rolled my eyes, annoyed. Sweetie, nobody cares who you're dating or fucking, I thought. The young Black woman's chubby and pale companion looked my way, and once his eyes met mine, I smiled. The dude isn't straight, nor does he swing both ways. Yup, he's gayer than a two-dollar bill. As a bisexual man, I know these things. Shrugging, I looked elsewhere. Don't want the bozo to think I want him...or his bitch.
